


Release

by WinterTheWriter



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BDSM, Bondage, Collar, Crying, Dominant/Master!John, Healthy BDSM relationship, M/M, More accurate than all 50 Shades of Gray combined, Praise Kink, Spanking, Submissive!Sherlock, Subspace, handjob, in a good way
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-23
Updated: 2014-12-23
Packaged: 2018-03-03 00:26:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2831459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WinterTheWriter/pseuds/WinterTheWriter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock needs that emotional release only obedience and submission will give him. John makes sure that happens.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Release

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, everyone! I’m /so/ sorry if you’re still waiting for me to update AOM. I promise it will happen at some point, but I was hit with Uni and depression like a freight train. Uni is over for a while now, though, so updates will be resuming shortly. Until then, have a BDSM Johnlock scene as a peace offering.

The tile is cold and unforgivingly hard beneath Sherlock’s knees. It’s the kind of discomfort that begs for movement and relief. Rough jute wraps around his pectorals and across his stomach, winding back to bind his arms together from elbow on. The knots are just tight enough to be uncomfortable, but loose enough that he doesn’t lose feeling in his hands. There’s a soft blindfold across his eyes and it makes his forehead and the bridge of his nose itch horribly. His collar, cold, lumpy metal chain connected to a hard, closed lock, sits in the hollow of his collarbone. It’s impossible to ignore or forget.

Sherlock is in heaven.

He always is during their scenes. The moment John, his lovely John, locks that collar around his neck, every thought in his mind vanishes, leaving behind a pleasant hum that resonates through his entire being. Sherlock is barely aware of his surroundings. He doesn’t know what time it is or what cases are in his email or even what room he’s in, because he doesn’t have to know. He doesn’t have to know or care because his John, his Master will do all the caring and knowing for him. All Sherlock has to do is let go and obey, and the knowledge of this brings on a high better than heroin. 

John had known, earlier, this was needed today. Tension was etched into every line and edge on Sherlock’s body, his frown severe and the furrow between his brows deep with stress. He hadn’t solved the case on time. Someone had died because of it. Because of him. And after being ruder than usual to the Yard, Sherlock had marched home without even a glance at his husband, his hands balled into fists. 

Usually, Doms see this behavior as an opportunity for discipline. Too often are they wont to think of their subs as children, jumping to the whip or paddle (whichever their sub doesn’t actually enjoy) at the first sign of recalcitrance. But not John. Never John. John saw it for the cry for help it was, the need for emotional release and calm. As soon as Sherlock walked through the door, the collar was clasped around his neck as his clothes were tugged from his body.

Perfect. 

A warm, heavy hand drops onto Sherlock’s hair, and Sherlock strains up to it automatically. John chuckles lowly, a rumbling sound that sends a shiver through Sherlock’s body. “Are we feeling better?” he asks, the words soft with affection but carrying an underlying current of authority. Sherlock nods in reply, in far too deep for his tongue to cooperate enough for words. “Good. That’s my good boy.” A whine slips from Sherlock’s lips at the praise. He drinks it up like a man dying of thirst, pressing harder into John’s hand. 

There’s a ruffling sound behind him as John gets to his knees, his hand trailing down Sherlock’s neck to run under the rope, tracing the agitated skin and eliciting a sigh from his sub. Sherlock knows it’s half for pleasure and half to make sure nothing’s too tight. Always so considerate, his Master, always taking care of everything. Sherlock wets his lips with his tongue and leans his head back onto John’s shoulder. Moments later, soft lips press hot, moist kisses along his neck and Sherlock’s pulse jumps at the feeling, a low moan escaping. 

The purpose of these scenes is never sex. Sherlock is nude to make it easier to bind him and establish a power imbalance. But John can’t always keep his hands off of Sherlock when he’s this helpless and submissive, and, well, Sherlock certainly isn’t going to complain. John’s hands are sure and hot, almost scalding, against Sherlock’s flesh and he craves that contact like nothing else. 

“Darling, I’m not going to spank you this time,” John murmurs into his ear, an absent hand gliding down Sherlock’s thigh. Sherlock almost whines in disappointment at the words, barely fighting the urge to pout. Spanking always gets him to that subspace he craves, the perfect sensation of sharp, stinging pain mingled with the soothing rub of John’s hand after every third strike. John chuckles at the whine and kisses just under his ear. “Do you want it that badly?” That bastard. He knows Sherlock does. He just wants to hear it. 

“Yes, Master,” Sherlock breathes out, the words airy and soft. Subspace exhausts him in the best of ways, taking out all the punch and snark in his voice and leaving him a being of pure instinct and obedience. He can feel John smiling against his neck.

“How many strikes, hmm?” The question isn’t directed at Sherlock, and so he doesn’t reply. John hums thoughtfully as the hand on his thigh moves to rub the soft upper swell of his arse, all that is accessible whilst he sits on his knees. “I think twenty will do.” Sherlock’s breath hitches at that, anticipation lacing through his blood like a drug. He swallows thickly as John slowly, carefully guides his torso forward until his cheek rests against the cold floor, his arse raised and exposed. 

Sherlock should feel embarrassed or self-conscious but he doesn’t. He can’t. His trust for John is too great for him to even consider being uncomfortable around him. He wriggles slightly, eagerly, and John stills him with a silent hand on his back. That’s all that’s needed, now, for John to get his point across. “Bare hand, this time,” John says. It’s perfect. Sherlock doesn’t want the choice of choosing something else. He doesn’t want that control or responsibility. He hums his agreement, a lazy smile curling his lips.

The slaps start without warning or preparation. John doesn’t hold back, not with Sherlock, and the force of his hand is enough to jolt Sherlock forward with each one. Pain burns like fire on his arse and radiates down his thighs and up his back, and god if that doesn’t make Sherlock’s cock hard. Just like clockwork, John rubs the tender, reddened skin after every third strike, soothing it briefly before hitting it harder than before. Sherlock’s swimming in endorphins. He doesn’t cry out or flinch, instead sagging into the floor as he allows the blows to lull him. 

He could almost fall asleep like this and he briefly wonders what that says about his sanity. 

For the last spank, John seems to read Sherlock’s mind. He knows Sherlock’s about as deep into subspace as he can go, but he hasn’t reached that release he needs. Sherlock feels John drape himself over his body, one hand sliding under him to grip and stroke his cock in firm, confident pulls that have him crying out in pleasure. He’s already so close, so close…

Just then, John pulls his free hand back and slaps Sherlock’s arse hard enough that it echoes, pairing the pain with a twist of his wrist on his cock. Sherlock’s release rushes through him like a tidal wave, whiting out everything before coloring it in with pure bliss. He’s floating, high above anything any drug can give him, and he doesn’t think he’s ever coming down.

Vaguely, he can feel hot tears running down his cheeks and dripping off his chin onto the floor. He hears John washing his hands. John’s mumbling soft words of endearment as he unties Sherlock’s bonds and gently brings Sherlock’s arms down from their position, rubbing the strained muscles. Warm hands grip his waist and tug him into John’s lap, his arms wrapping around him. Sherlock cuddles into John’s chest immediately, his eyes closed even after his blindfold is tugged off. Sobs wrack Sherlock’s body as he clings onto him, and John presses unhurried kisses to his head as he rubs his back.

After a few moments, Sherlock blinks open his eyes and looks around. They’re in the bathroom, sitting in front of the sink. The colors are more vivid than usual, albeit slightly blurred from tears. He sniffs and looks up at John, who smiles warmly down at him and kisses his forehead as he brushes away Sherlock’s tears. “I love you so much,” he murmurs, and Sherlock nuzzles into his neck with a watery smile. 

“I love you too,” Sherlock says quietly, his voice still slightly airy as he comes down from subspace. He feels gloriously content and happy, the tackiness of tears on his cheeks going unregistered as he relaxes in the arms of the man he loves. Absently, Sherlock toys with his collar and wishes he never had to take it off for their daily lives. 

“How do you feel?” John traces the indentations from the rope as he speaks. Sherlock shifts slightly in his lap and winces as he notes that sitting may prove to be difficult for the next couple of days. He’s suddenly exhausted. He sags against John’s shoulder and presses closer to him, humming in lieu of a reply. John laughs, and then they sit in silence for a few blissful minutes.

Then, Sherlock looks up at John and grins. “I’m still not doing the dishes tonight.”

John laughs.


End file.
